


Promise of Destruction

by mind_the_thorns



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'm not really sure where I'm going with this, Sera has a potty mouth but you know that already, We're going on a quest, kink meme fill, more tags to come I imagine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-03-24 22:50:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3787282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mind_the_thorns/pseuds/mind_the_thorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lorelei Lavellan sends Cole on a mission with Cassandra, Sera, and Vivienne.  What could go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So in my headcanon, the Inquisitor has to delegate a lot of stuff to her Inner Circle. Like, she's a busy woman--she can't possibly go on all those quests herself, right? It'd take years just to clean out the Hinterlands, and Cory ain't a patient guy...darkspawn...magister...thing. 
> 
> Yeah, this is rambly and I'm sorry. Hopefully it comes out better on the page than it does in my head orz.
> 
> Inspired by this prompt on the kink meme:  
> http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/12149.html?thread=47709557#t47709557
> 
> This is probably going to end up more plot-y than OP wanted, but then, my stuff often is.

Since officially joining the Inquisition, Cole has made it a habit to avoid the war room. He hadn’t known it at the time, but according to Varric he had apparently made the wrong impression on the Inquisitor’s advisors by “appearing” on the eponymous table that night after helping Lorelei escape Envy--it’s several been months now, and Josephine still sometimes shoots him nervous sideways glances when she thinks Cole isn’t looking, like she’s afraid that he’s going to pop out of the shadows and scream “boo!” at her at any given moment. It doesn’t seem to matter that Cole can’t make people forget him anymore--or that he’s never, to his knowledge, shouted _boo_ at anyone--but if helping is as simple as staying away from the Ambassador’s favorite haunts, then Cole is happy to oblige.

Moreover, he just isn’t of much use in the war room. There’s pain there, of course--pain seems to follow many of Lorelei’s companions like a shroud, and Cullen and Leliana are particularly loud--but it’s muted when they stand around the table and stare at the little figurines the way Solas and The Iron Bull stare at the pieces on the chessboard (both the real one and the one in their heads). They’re busy focusing on other things, _more important things_ , Lorelei might say, so Cole leaves them to it. He might not have a few weeks ago, but Varric is helping him to understand that sometimes it’s best to leave people to work through their issues alone--even if that means letting them ignore the pain temporarily.

Everyone had seemed content with this arrangement, so Cole is surprised when Lorelei sends a messenger up to the rafters of the Herald’s Rest with a summons. As he hesitantly steps through the threshold of the great oak door’s much smaller wicket, it occurs to him that he’s never even set foot in _this_ war room. The one in Haven had been small, shuttered away, fragile and furtive like a timid newborn bird on the cusp of the nest. This was much grander, full of windows and light and _space_ \--a great eagle, deadly and graceful bird of prey, ready to soar.

Lorelei stands behind the table--also much larger than its predecessor--looking like she always does: thoughtful and sad and vaguely cross, dark brows furrowed over eyes that want to be bright, glittering amethyst but often appear navy blue under the shadows of her black hair. She looks up when he enters, and her gaze softens slightly.

“Come on in, Cole. Thank you for coming. The others will be here shortly.”

“Is something wrong?” he asks, because even though he can see it in her mind if he looks-- _heavy with regret and guilt, burdened by duty, worried, always worried, don’t let it show, anger is easier_ \--he knows it’s polite--human--to let people voice their own thoughts.

She smiles just ever so slightly, the corner of her mouth tipping up in a quick twitch. She’s pleased that he’s learning--he knows without even needing to look. It’s been weeks, but she still frets over siding with Varric about what to do with the templar who’d killed the real Cole. Not because Solas had been upset with her--although that had hurt, too, for a time--but because later she’d started to wonder if she’d robbed him of some kind of fundamental choice. 

Cole still isn’t sure how to dispel the notion from her head, or if he even should. He supposes that in some sense she _had_ made the decision for him, but he doesn’t understand why that should make her feel guilty. It’s true that being human is hard and confusing and often painful, but back then, all he’d wanted to do was kill the templar for hurting him, for hurting Cole, and Lorelei had _stopped_ him. Isnt’t that the most important thing? As long as he can still help people, as long as he can’t be bound, what does it matter if he is human or spirit or something inbetween?

Her smile turns sad, as if she’s the one reading _his_ thoughts, but she doesn’t talk about the templar. Instead, she answers his question with a small shrug of one shoulder. “Let’s wait till the others get here. I don’t want to have to explain myself twice. Once is bad enough.”

“I do not like the sound of that,” says a voice from behind him, and Cole steps aside to allow Cassandra to stride into the chamber. She nods her head in greeting and--after a beat of hesitation--he returns the gesture, although he’s not sure if she can see it from under the brim of his hat. “What manner of mess have you involved yourself in this time, Inquisitor?”

Lorelei’s face very rarely matches her emotions, Cole has noticed. He feels guilt surge through her like a tidal wave at Cassandra’s gentle teasing, but her expression sours as if angered by it. “Trust me, I would _involve_ myself in less if I could, but for _some_ reason everyone around here seems to think I’m in charge.”

Her words echo and clash against her thoughts. _Please don’t make this harder than it already is, I’m letting you down, duty calls, but to which family? Someone always needs something, Creators I am just one person, must I be more_ \--

Cole wisely keeps this to himself, but only just. He’s still getting the hang of holding his tongue (which is apparently a figure of speech and he is not, in fact, expected to literally hold his tongue, thank goodness--the constant dry mouth was awful).

Cassandra chuckles. She can’t read minds, but she doesn’t seem put off by the heated words. “No rest for the wicked, as I believe the saying goes. I am going to assume this is important? I was in the middle of reading---important...documents.”

“Did you finish the last chapter?” Cole says eagerly, picking up her thoughts. “What happens to the Knight-Captain?”

She flushes as Lorelei stifles a snort. “I suppose I should know better than to try to be discreet around you, Cole. Yes, I finished. I could tell you--or I could just let you read it yourself. I know Varric has been teaching you.”

“But you do the voices better,” Cole protests. Lorelei can’t suppress the laughter this time, and as Cassandra splutters out a denial, he wonders if this is just another thing he’ll never understand about being human. Feeling ashamed about things you love--it seems sad to him. Why not embrace the things that take the pain away?

He might have asked, but a new voice from the doorway cuts him off. 

“Dearest Cassandra, have a care. Should any more blood rush to your head I fear you might faint.”

Vivienne glides through the open doorway like a swan upon a placid lake, head held at just the right angle so as to look down her nose at the world. Her icy gaze falls on him and her eyes narrow in a way that strongly reminds him of how most people look at nugs or the roaches that sometimes invade the granaries. 

Cole shrinks away from the weight of her glare, picking at the loose threads on the hem of his shirt. Vivienne has a way of making him feel small and insignificant that has nothing to do with the fact that she is one of the very few people who is taller than he is, and yet he can’t say that he dislikes her. He admires her, he thinks, the way he admires Lorelei and Cassandra for always being so sure of themselves, and wishes she wouldn’t look at him like he’s something slimy stuck to the bottom of her boots.

“Inquisitor, what is your pet demon doing here?”

He also wishes that she would stop calling him a demon. At least she’s not afraid of him anymore.

“I invited him,” Lorelei says, a hint of a warning in her tone.

“For what purpose, darling?”

Lorelei pinches the bridge of her nose. “I’ll explain, but let’s wait until Sera arrives--”

Vivienne’s expression puckers into the face she makes when her tea is too bitter. “What on earth would you need that disgusting guttersnipe--”

As if summoned by the sound of her name, Sera appears at the threshold. “Am I late for the party or something?” Her eyes dart from Vivienne to Cole and back again, then pivots on her heel. “Oh, hell no. You didn’t say nothing about Madame Frosty Britches or Creepy being part of this. I’m going back to bed.”

Cole looks uncertainly around the room, seeing a friendly face in Cassandra only, since Lorelei’s expression for once matches her thunderous thoughts. Vivienne is bad enough, but Sera hates him just as much, if not more. He doesn’t like the squirming feeling in his gut, like shame and anger and sadness all mixed into one. “Maybe I should go…”

“Cole, stay,” Lorelei barks. “Sera, get your ass back here. Don’t make me order you.”

Sera snorts, but whirls back around and stomps into the room reluctantly. 

“Oooh, lookit you being all Inquisitorial and shite.” She wiggles her fingers mockingly, grinning. “Bet you order Baldy’s arse around like that, yeah? Bet he likes it.”

“I refuse to dignify that with a response,” says Lorelei, through her teeth. “And now that we’re all here, we can get down to business.”

“I quite agree,” says Vivienne archly. Cassandra nods.

“The less we talk about Solas’s...posterior, the better.”

“She likes his arms better, anyway,” says Cole, unthinkingly, then shrinks under Lorelei’s glare.

“As I was saying, I called you here because I need your help.”

Almost in unison, Cassandra and Vivienne walk up to the war table to stand across from Lorelei, all joking forgotten as quickly as if a switch had been flipped. Sera hangs back, arms crossed in defiance, but she is attentive, her interest piqued. Cole shuffles awkwardly from one foot to the other, wondering what to do with himself. He’s rarely, if ever, involved in this part of missions and he doesn’t know where to stand, or how to act. He settles for just trying to meet Lorelei’s gaze as she looks at each one of them in turn.

“First thing’s first. Cassandra, I must apologize to you.”

The dark haired woman blinks in surprise. “What for?”

Lorelei takes a deep breath. “I’ve called you here because I have to go back on my word. Something has come up and...and I won’t be able to go with you to Caer Oswin tomorrow.”

Caer Oswin. Cole doesn’t recognize the name, but Cassandra’s thoughts are loud--it’s where the Inquisition spies think the missing Seekers of Truth are hiding. 

To her credit, Cassandra does not let any of her darker emotions creep into her voice. “I know you would not do so lightly. I won’t pry, but I feel I should ask--is everything all right?”

Lorelei’s fingers clench around the lip of the table, nail beds going white. “It’s nothing, I just--it’s stupid, really--”

“ _Have to go, they need me, I’m their First, it’s my duty. Can’t see anymore blood spilled, any more death, what bloody good is this Inquisition if I can’t save my own Clan?_ ”

He doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but the pain bursts out of her so brightly that he can’t help it. The Inquisitor is hard to read most of the time--when she isn’t, it’s like a dam bursting, impossible to hold back the flood of feelings, hard not to get washed away. He can feel Lorelei’s eyes on him as he stares at the stone floor, examining the grout. “Sorry,” he mutters meekly.

The tension between them slowly bleeds away as Lorelei sighs heavily. “It’s...okay. I know you’re trying. But yes, Cole is correct. My Clan is having...difficulties with their new neighbors in Wycome, and it’s escalated to the point that I no longer feel comfortable sending agents in my stead. I have to go sort this out before...before it ends badly. So--I was hoping you three could accompany Cassandra to Caer Oswin instead.”

“Wycome?” Vivienne echoes, sounding both concerned and annoyed. “My dear, as you know I am originally from Wycome and have had dealings with the nobles there. You must allow me to come with you. Surely I can be of better assistance to you than at some fortress in the middle of nowhere.”

Lorelei shakes her head. “Thank you, but Cassandra will likely need magical backup. Our spies weren’t able to bring back much information on the area, and I can’t send her blindly into danger without a mage for support.”

“Then send the Tevinter,” Vivienne says, her nose wrinkling slightly.

“No, thank you,” says Cassandra, frowning. “Dorian has been laid up with the Antivan flu for weeks. I’d rather he stay quarantined in the infirmary until he stops sneezing fireballs.”

“Sounds like a good strategy to me,” snickers Sera. “Point him at the bad guys and stick a bit of feather under his nose--if the fireballs don’t get ‘em, the snot will.”

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise and Vivienne looks almost desperately at Lorelei. “Solas, then?”

“He’s coming with me,” she says, grimacing. “I couldn’t talk him out of it, although you’re welcome to try.”

“You know I try to ration my interactions with your apostate as much as possible, my dear. Very well. I will accompany Cassandra on this mission. Would you mind telling me why those two--” she waves her hand in the vague direction of Cole and Sera as if swatting a bothersome insect-- “must be present as well?”

“Because we’re short on manpower. Varric is helping Scout Harding with a nug infestation in Redcliffe, Bull’s taken the Chargers on a bandit hunt along the Storm Coast, and Blackwall won’t be back from his reconnaissance mission in the Emerald Graves for at least another week.” Lorelei ticks off the remaining members of the Inner Circle on one hand, and shrugs helplessly. “Unless you want to storm a fortified keep with just the two of you, this is your only option.”

Vivienne looks as though this is not such a terrible suggestion, but Cassandra loudly talks over her. “Well, I for one, welcome the help. Bann Loren has always been an unremarkable man, but his holdings are impressive. I will need all the help I can get.”

“Then it’s settled?” Lorelei asks hopefully, gazing expectantly at them. 

Cole offers his assistance readily, although he’s not sure it was ever in question. “I’ll help if I can.”

Vivienne sniffs. “I suppose it can’t be helped. I will assist you, my dear, but only because the Seekers are a necessary institution.”

“Sera?” prompts Lorelei, when the final member of their party doesn’t immediately volunteer her aid. 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Go do your elfy stuff,” she grumbles. “But just so you know, this whole thing is shite and I hate it.”

“Noted.” Lorelei doesn't grin, but it's a near thing--a weight has lifted from her shoulders, Cole knows. One burden lightened among many. “Good luck storming the castle, you guys. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that was a Princess Bride reference.
> 
> You all know this isn't going to end well, right? Right.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I liiiiiive. Sorry for the heinously long wait on this one. I work in the academic sphere so end of April/beginning of May is a super hectic time for me. Also I kept reading really great meta on Cole and psyching myself out as to how well I was portraying him, so that held me back from updating for a while.
> 
> On that note, everyone go read distantsun's stuff here on AO3! She is a fantastic writer and was kind enough to look over this chapter in order to convince me to stop being a paranoid wreck and just publish the damn thing :D
> 
> Also, I stole some party banter straight from the game there at the end, sorry for being lazy haha
> 
> With that, enjoy!

Caer Oswin, as it turns out, is almost a two week journey from Skyhold, even on horseback. Cole has been on long campaigns before, but this is his first lengthy journey since confronting the Templar, and he finds that this--traveling--is perhaps one of the more egregious downsides to being human. As a spirit, the passing of time had felt different, less concrete--he could blink and whole hours might have passed, as if he were a feather in a swift stream, carried with the current to the end destination without much thought given to how he got there. It’d certainly made visiting places like the Western Approach--where it was almost unheard of for campaigns to last less than a fortnight or two--much more tolerable. Now, though--now he is submerged in the stream, too heavy to float along the top and drift around the whirling eddies, stuck struggling upstream at a snail’s pace.

Not to mention that camping in the wilds is a much different experience now that his body actually needs things like sleep and nourishment. Then there is the weather--three days into their journey, it begins to rain, and Cole discovers that he does not like the sensation of dampness creeping into his clothes, nor the way his limbs tremble when he wakes to a progressively soggy sleeping mat. The others are just as miserable--Cassandra suffers from an old shoulder wound that seizes up and throbs relentlessly in the mornings, as if the rain has seeped into the cracks of her skin and frozen solid, and Sera is uncomfortably reminded of nights spent curled up in dark alleys, hoping that the puddle underneath her is _just_ rain and not anything worse. Vivienne doesn’t mind the cold, but she dislikes the mud and hates the way her boots squelch when she walks.

He also learns very quickly that long journeys are even more unbearable when one must pass them in silence. 

It’s not that he minds the quiet--there are times when he relishes it, in fact. Before, he had never truly been alone in his own head. There had always been someone new to hear, to heal, to help, always the echo of someone else’s pain filling up the empty spaces. Now it is harder to hear. Sometimes he actually has to make an effort to listen, if the person isn’t hurting loud enough. It had scared him at first. How can he help if he can’t hear the hurt? 

It had taken time, but he’s getting used to his new way of helping. Listening might be harder but he can still do it, and he is beginning to understand that there are other ways to know when his help is needed. Like the way Cullen’s eyes scrunch up at the corners when the withdrawal gets so bad he can barely think, or when Dorian stays so long in the library, hunched over his books, that he forgets to eat. Cole doesn't have to look into their heads to know that Cullen needs a sprig of elfroot in his tea for the headache and that Dorian needs to come down to the tavern, both for a meal and for a temporary escape. It’s harder, and he can’t start over if he does it wrong, but it some ways he enjoys it even more than he had as a spirit--he likes the way Dorian smiles and claps him on the back, how Cullen takes a sip of the tea and nods, almost imperceptibly, in thanks. 

And the quiet is nice, sometimes. It lets him listen to his _own_ song, the hurts and the joys, the highs and lows of being human.

That doesn’t mean he enjoys _this_ silence, though. At first it was the inclement weather that had preserved the quiet, the gray wet blanket dampening even Sera’s usual chatter. But even when the rain clears up and the mood improves, both Sera and Vivienne make it abundantly clear that he is not expected to join in their sporadic conversation--Vivienne just ignores him completely and Sera glowers and says, “Shut it, Creepy!”, sometimes before he can even open his mouth. Cassandra is pleasant enough to him but she is reticent by nature and seems perfectly content to listen to Sera and Vivienne bicker, intervening only when things appear to be getting out of hand.

“Sera,” Cassandra says, breaking through the start of another such argument, “I’ve noticed one of my books is missing.”

Much to his surprise, Cole finds himself on the receiving end of another of Sera’s glares. “Maybe check with Creepy. He still touches everything.”

“I like the stories in her head more than the ones on the page,” he protests. He’s still not very comfortable with reading, despite Varric’s best efforts. The mechanics of it just don’t interest him. He knows the basics--reading all but the most complicated words and even a bit of writing (although he’s been told that his spelling is atrocious), but if he’s perfectly honest, he wouldn’t be trying to improve at all if it hadn’t made Varric so happy to seem him try. Why would he take a book when Cassandra can make the characters come to life?

Cassandra shakes her head. “ _Cole_ didn’t take it.”

He likes the way she emphasizes his name, even if she’s not doing it on purpose. It makes his chest feel warm, chases away the hurt where "Creepy" and "demon" linger.

“Right, which one?” Sera says with a roll of her eyes.

Cassandra delicately clears her throat. Nearby, Vivienne titters quietly behind one graceful hand. “The one with all the illustrations.”

“Oh,” says Sera, with a look of dawning. “That one was full on. I threw it under your bed.”

“You don’t know how to ask permission first?”

“Fine. Please can I _not_ find more of your mucky little books? Drawings.” She shudders. “Ew.”

Vivienne somehow manages to turn her very voice into a smirk. “I’d have assumed you of all people would enjoy that particular genre. It’s bawdy and indelicate--just like you.”

Since it’s the only way to get her to talk to him, Cole echoes her thoughts aloud. “There aren’t enough of the parts that bounce.”

Vivienne can’t muffle her laughter now. Sera wheels on him. “Shut it, you! Or I’ll bounce your butt right off your friggin’ horse.”

Sometimes, he can almost imagine that this is like the teasing that The Iron Bull and Krem do to one another, that he and Sera are friends “giving each other grief” while Vivienne giggles at their playful banter. Except that Krem never looks at The Iron Bull with disgust in his eyes, and he knows Vivienne isn’t laughing because she thinks he’s funny--she really does want Sera to bounce him off his horse.

Cole sighs and reins his horse to a slower canter, dropping away from the group as Sera and Vivienne spur theirs onward, engaged already in another battle of budding affection disguised as barbed words.

It had never bothered him, before. The way they looked at him. The way most people looked at him. If they were frightened or repulsed by him, he could always make them forget, make _himself_ forget. The forgetting helped everyone, even him. Now everything sticks--every curled lip, every distasteful glance, every angry word. _Creepy. Demon. Strange. Dangerous. Thing. It._

It hurts and he’s not sure how to make it stop. He wants Sera and Vivienne and Blackwall and everyone at Skyhold who fears the creature lurking in the rafters to _like_ him, and it hurts that they don’t. It hurts knowing that he can’t ever go back to not caring, and that he might feel like this forever.

If Varric were here, he’d have the answer. He’d tell him what to do.

He almost doesn’t notice Cassandra slowing her horse to ride beside him. He’s been doing that a lot lately--getting lost inside his head and forgetting to pay attention to the world. He wonders if that’s a common thing to humans, or just those ones who used to be quite comfortable dwelling in two places at once.

“Are you all right, Cole?” she says, concern plain in her voice and on her face. “You’ve been uncommonly quiet thus far.”

Cassandra might know. She gives good advice--mostly to the Inquisitor, but Cole listens when he can. So self-assured, she never falters. “How do you make someone like you?”

She frowns, following his gaze to Sera and Vivienne’s distant figures. She doesn’t say anything for a long moment. It’s hard to resist delving into her thoughts--something in the question has teased out a flicker of pain, some long forgotten insecurity, a hand of friendship brushed aside, scorned out of fear and pride--but he resists, scratching nothing but the very surface, letting her gather her thoughts.

Eventually, she says, “We can’t control how people think of us. Often the more we try, the more we push everyone away. The best we can do is be ourselves, and hope not to be judged too harshly for it. And if we are, we accept it and move on.”

Somehow, that makes him feel even worse. “But who am I? Spirit? Demon? Human? How do I be myself if there’s more than one of me?”

Cassandra huffs out a wry laugh. “I’ve never done well with philosophical questions like that, I’m afraid. I’d tell you to pray to the Maker for guidance, but I don’t think that would make you feel any better, would it?”

“Maybe,” says Cole, frowning as he considers it. “I’ve never tried. Is that how you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Confident, commanding, faithful and fierce, but quiet and content. You started the Inquisition and people hated you for it, but it never bothered you. A lonely spark struck in the darkness, unafraid.”

“I do what must be done,” Cassandra says, but then her voice softens, fading with the memories. “Although it did bother me. When I left the Seekers, there were those who branded me a traitor, called me terrible things--men and women I’d grown up with, considered family. Oh, yes. It bothered me quite a bit.” 

“Oh,” says Cole despairingly, feeling the pain rolling off of her in steady waves. “I’m sorry. Your head has tangles I can’t see, sometimes. The hurts aren’t as loud...or maybe _I’m_ too loud. It’s hard to make sense of it all this way. Can I help?”

She smiles at him, reaching out over the neck of her horse to grasp his hands--he’d been wringing them together. “You agreed to come with me to Caer Oswin, Cole. You are helping. And I thank you for it.”

His eyes feel hot. He’ll never understand why human eyes cry at happiness. “Faith seeks a friend in Compassion. Cautious, careful, too much grey, but growing.”

Cassandra smiles, pleased and embarrassed all at once. “There, you see? If you can make a former Seeker of Truth become friends with a spirit-turned-human, you can become friends with anyone.”

“But I didn’t make you do anything.”

“No, you didn’t. You were just...you.”

Cole frowns. “That’s not very helpful. Whatever I am, I’m me all the time. And it doesn’t seem to be working on Sera or Vivienne.”

“If you want my advice?”

He nods eagerly.

“Vivienne does not give her friendship freely. You must first earn her respect, and she is not the kind of woman to base that respect on words alone. She is from Orlais, after all--they are experts at never saying what they mean.”

“A word behind a word behind a mask in front of a mask.” Cole makes a face. “I don’t like Orlais.”

Cassandra laughs, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “Quite right, too.”

Cole likes her laugh, but her words are troubling. He’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to earn Vivienne’s respect. She used to loathe him, and now she looks at him with utter indifference, as if he were something unpleasant but altogether irrelevant slithering across her path. He’ll have to ask Varric when he returns to Skyhold. Almost everyone liked Varric.

“And Sera?” he asks, eager to learn more.

“Talk to her,” Cassandra suggests, then cuts him off with a raised finger when he starts to protest. “ _Don’t_ read her mind. Talk to her about things she likes, ask her about--” she pauses, a grin spreading over her face-- “Ask her about the next prank she’s planning. Perhaps she’ll even let you help.”

“But I already _know_ what she’s planning. She hasn’t stopped thinking about the spider eggs since we left Skyhold.”

Cassandra’s eyebrows climb into her hairline. “Spider eggs?”

“Dorian hates the way they move. I could probably get into the library without anyone seeing. No one will notice if they’re not looking.”

“Maker’s breath. I am going to regret telling you to help with pranks, aren’t I?”

“Oi! I know you’re talking about me back there. The hair on the back of my head’s all prickly. Knock it off!” Sera had slowed her horse and was now shooting a backwards glare at them both.

Cassandra sends him a knowing glance and then spurs her mount forward to ride alongside the elf. The exchange a few words, but the wind and the noisy splashes of the horses’ hooves against the soggy ground cover them up. He distinctly hears Sera exclaim, “You _what? _”, and then Cassandra is kicking her horse into a canter in order to catch up with Vivienne.__

__Sera appears to argue with herself for several seconds--she’s angry, but also not. When she wheels her horse around and directs her to keep pace alongside Cole’s, her eyes are a curious mix of intrigue and resentment._ _

__“All right, what is it?”_ _

__“What is what?” Cole says, blinking. Cassandra told him not to read her thoughts, so now he has no idea what she’s talking about._ _

__“Cassandra says you have something you want to ask me. I can’t stand not knowing, so out with it, come on.”_ _

__“Oh,” says Cole uncertainly, then brightens as he catches her meaning--well, Cassandra’s meaning. “Can I help you prank Dorian?”_ _

__Sera’s mouth drops open. “Can you what?”_ _

__“Help you prank Dorian.” He wonders if maybe she didn’t hear him correctly. “When we get back to Skyhold.”_ _

__“You want to help prank people? With me? Why?” Her suspicious look is far from the delighted acceptance he was going for. He tugs at the brim of his hat, lowering it over his eyes._ _

__“Because you like it. Because it helps. I want to help, too.”_ _

__“How’d you know I was going after Dorian next? You inside my head again, Creepy?”_ _

__He cringes. “Not on purpose. You’re very loud.”_ _

__She sniffs. “Right, well, now it can’t be Dorian. You’ve made it weird. Maybe I’ll take on Cassandra next.”_ _

__“Cassandra punches bears,” he reminds her._ _

__She nods, casting a furtive look at the Seeker’s back. “Right, then. Not Cassandra.”_ _

__“How about Varric?”_ _

__Sera quirks an eyebrow. “What, really? Isn’t he like, your surrogate dad or something? Thought you’d tell me to leave off.”_ _

__“He tried to make me cut my hair. I _like_ my hair.”_ _

__“Friggin’ right. No one should make anyone do something to their bodies that they don’t like.” Sera’s looking at him appraisingly now. “All right, then, Creepy. What did you have in mind?”_ _


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My triumphant return! Well, not so triumphant as this is a fairly short chapter, but I'm not dead! Promise lives on! And we even get a little bit of action. No, not that kind of action, sorry. 
> 
> Un-betated this time around because I was in such a hurry to prove to everyone that I hadn't abandoned this thing haha.

Later he will wonder if his newfound camaraderie with Sera is to blame for what happens when they arrive at the outskirts of Caer Oswin nearly a full week later.  Despite getting off to a promising start, they aren’t on speaking terms for the full seven days--a day or two after their initial conversation, Sera suggests putting prune juice in Varric’s wine, but prunes make her think of raisins, and raisins make her angry and sad and pricklier than a quillback; it puts her in a foul mood and her thoughts are just so loud--they echo in Cole’s head and he can’t help but try to help.  

It takes him another two days to get back onto her good side.  This he accomplishes by mentioning that the raspberry jelly tarts that Varric loves so much are almost indistinguishable when presented alongside the ones with red chile paste that the cook makes whenever the Nevarran dignitaries visit Skyhold.  It was actually Cassandra’s idea, but she had let him borrow it with the promise that she’d be invited to watch “that cocky dwarf get what was coming to him.”  

It seems to have worked: Sera grows progressively less standoffish with him as they go along, provided that Cole keeps her thoughts to himself and doesn’t make any further attempts to help.  It takes a lot more concentration than he would have anticipated.  In his mind’s eye he imagines a single thread connecting them, no more substantial than spider’s silk, easily diverted or snapped entirely by the slightest tug, the smallest misstep.  He tries his best to nurture the thread, focusing on keeping it tight but not taut, cradling it gently as he adds more and more threads--more prank ideas, more jokes (though his are almost always unintentional, Sera seems to occasionally find him amusing nonetheless).  It’s exhausting, and a large part of him hates that she won’t let him help.  He’s _supposed_ to help.  But how hard can he tug before the thread snaps?

As they enter Bann Loren’s territory, he oversteps himself.  He tells her the story of her bow, how the part of it that was a tree remembers letters carved into the bark-- _forever, no matter what_ \--because it’s sad and romantic, and Sera won’t admit it but she loves to read the tragedies, the woebegone tales of star-crossed lovers, the tragic and bittersweet endings that make her sigh and clutch the worn pages to her chest as the candle flickers.

She scowls at him as Vivienne smirks.  “Look, can you at least not stare _past_ my eyes?  Creepy, that.”

Cole makes an effort to meet her gaze and tells her, confused, “You’re not your eyes.  You live behind them.”

“That, too!  Don’t do that!” she says, recoiling visibly.  As she spurs her horse to walk faster, he hears her muttering under her breath (“Friggin’ weirdy sayin’ shite to creep me out, ugh!”) and he knows he will need an idea better than chile paste to recover from this latest blunder.

He thinks about asking Cassandra for help again, but the thought evaporates as something _hot and raw and wrong_ brushes against the back of his mind, a sudden intense burst of feeling that crawls along his spine like the not-pain of a carelessly bumped elbow, shivery and strange.  

He reigns in his horse.  Something is not right.  Something is very not right.

It takes a few moments, but the others take notice of his sudden halt.

“Cole?  What is it?” Cassandra prompts, dark eyes narrowing.  

He barely hears her.  Disjointed thoughts--not his, not his companions’--clash against one another, faint whispers layering over sharp, frantic shrieks-- _not going to wait until they reach the castle, TAKE THEM NOW, where is the Inquisitor, why can’t I hear the song anymore, GET THEM_ \--

Something cold drops into the pit of his stomach and sits there like a rock, paralyzing his limbs.  “ _Too red, too wrong, too raw--_ ”

Vaguely, he hears Sera make a sound of disgust.  “It’s like its face doesn’t know what it’s saying--”

There are red faces in the trees.

“Get down!”

It’s barely a warning--not enough, not soon enough, why hadn’t he heard them coming?--but the shout is all it takes for Cassandra to whip her shield off her back and around to her exposed left flank.  An arrow zips out of the foliage seconds later, pinging uselessly off the metal.  The air makes a shuddering, hollow sound and the hairs on Cole’s arms shiver as Vivienne’s barrier settles into place around them like a second skin; the magic hisses and sparks as a second arrow collides with it instead of Cassandra’s head.  Her horse panics and rears, hooves flashing like knives in the dusk.

Cole knows his own mount is about to follow suit, so he vaults from the saddle before she can try to dislodge him.  Vivienne’s spell can’t protect the horses as well as the humans; when she bolts, he hopes no arrows find her.  Then he’s turning, hands flying over his shoulders for the hilts of his daggers as a red shadow appears behind him, snarling.  The man he had once been is no longer there; red light is the only thing left in his eyes, and his body is all but taken over, red lyrium daggers where there should be arms, wickedly sharp points for fingers.  

Cole is not afraid of the red templars, but fighting them is always hard, mostly because the song is _so loud_.  Pain and fear and despair all wrapped up in the red haze, the sickly soothing song.  The rhythm of the fight is hard to hear over it all, hard to know when to feint and when to parry, when to get close.  His opponent is fast--faster than a normal human, almost as fast as Cole.  It takes a long time--too long--for his daggers to find a weak spot between the rock hard plates of lyrium surrounding the templar’s chest, and when he dies, Cole sees a flash of curly blond hair, brown eyes in a round face, his son’s first steps--

Cole shakes his head, refusing the memories, the guilt.  He’d stopped killing people to set them free long ago, but this is different.  They can only go back when they’re dead.

Another shadow is creeping up behind Vivienne.  She sees him, but she has her hands full keeping Cassandra from being overwhelmed.  HIs thoughts are dark, animalistic--a long sibilant chant of blood and death.  Cole darts in before he can get his chance, delivering a swift killing blow through his lungs from behind, but his dagger gets caught on lyrium armor when he tries to withdraw.  A heavily armored brute seizes the opportunity to charge, leveling his broadsword at them as if to run them both through like trout on a spear.  

 _Flee!_ His instincts scream--perhaps the most human he’s ever been--but fleeing would mean leaving Vivienne wide open for attack, and he can’t, he won’t--

Arrows rain down on the knight from above, pinging off his armor like hail on a tin roof.  It doesn't hurt him, but it’s enough to make him break off his attack. The knight barks out an order and points into the trees.  Cole follows his gaze to where Sera is sending him a rude gesture and another peppering of arrows.  She cackles gleefully as the knight runs for cover, but she doesn’t see the templar bowman, doesn’t see him take aim on his captain’s orders-- _that knife eared bitch!_ \--

Too far.  Cole will never be able to get there in time and Vivienne and Cassandra are occupied with two templars each.  He could yell, but the bowman is already taking aim.  He takes a quick breath, then hurls his remaining dagger with all his strength.

He’s not as good as Varric (“ _This is nothing, kid.  You should see what Rivaini can do with a blindfold and an apple._ ”), but it’s good enough.  The dagger strikes the bowman in the shoulder (Cole had been aiming for his head), and his shot goes wild.

It misses Sera by a wide margin, but the sudden movement startles her, makes her lose her balance.  Cole sees her windmill her arms wildly for a few heartstopping moments, feels her gut-wrenching panic, but there’s nothing he can do this time.  Sera plummets out of the tree and meets the ground with a dull, unpleasant thump.  She’s alive, Cole knows, but addled, and something is wrong with her left leg--sharp, skittery pain when the numbness of shock drains away.  Templars advance on her, swords drawn.

He crouches by the shadow he killed, tugging fruitlessly on his dagger still lodged in the dead thing’s back, and quickly glances around the battlefield.  Sera is down, he’s weaponless.  Cassandra is winded and suffering from a multitude of small injuries, sweat drenching her brow.  Vivienne is merciless, an avenging force of nature as long as her mana holds out--

There’s a sound like bottled thunder and Cole staggers, feeling as if all the air had been sucked out of his lungs.  Vivienne collapses like a marionette with its strings slashed, knocked unconscious by the power of the Smite.

Cole gives one last savage yank on his dagger, pulling it free at last with a sad shriek of metal against stone.  HIs thoughts play a frenzied game of roulette, trying to decide who to help, who to defend, but then there’s a templar above of him, sword leveled at his neck--

“Surrender,” he says, a hard voice in the void of his helmet, and Cole realizes all at once that they don’t _want_ to kill them.  Some of them do, some of the ones who are farthest gone, but they are just the attack dogs.  Their masters have them on a leash, holding them back from delivering the killing blow.  They’ve all been subdued, but this doesn’t have to end in death.

Cole nods.  “I surrender.   _We_ surrender.”

He’s expecting the blow, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less when the templar rears back and strikes him over the head with the pommel of his sword.  The pain is white hot as his vision goes black.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, that was a Princess Bride reference.
> 
> You all know this is not going to go to plan, right? Good.


End file.
